The Moscow gray winter day was getting dark, the gas in the lanterns was coldly lit, the shop windows were warmly illuminated - and the evening Moscow life, freed from daytime affairs, flared up: the cab sledges rushed thicker and more cheerfully, the overcrowded diving trams rattled harder - in the dusk it was already clear how green stars hissed from the wires - dully blackening passers-by hurried more animatedly along the snowy sidewalks ... Every evening my coachman sped me at this hour on a stretching trotter - from the Red Gate to the Cathedral of Christ the Savior: she lived opposite him; every evening I took her to dine at the Prague, at the Hermitage, at the Metropol, after dinner at the theaters, at concerts, and then at the Yar, at Strelna... How should all this end, I I didn’t know and tried not to think, not to think it out: it was useless, just like talking to her about it: she once and for all put off talking about our future; she was mysterious, incomprehensible to me, our relations with her were also strange - we still were not quite close; and all this endlessly kept me in unresolved tension, in painful expectation - and at the same time I was incredibly happy every hour spent near her. For some reason, she studied at the courses, quite rarely attended them, but she did. I once asked: "Why?" She shrugged her shoulders: “Why is everything done in the world? Do we understand anything in our actions? In addition, I am interested in history ... ”She lived alone - her widowed father, an enlightened man of a noble merchant family, lived in retirement in Tver, collecting something, like all such merchants. In the house opposite the Church of the Savior, she rented a corner apartment on the fifth floor for the sake of a view of Moscow, only two rooms, but spacious and well furnished. In the first, a wide Turkish sofa occupied a lot of space, there was an expensive piano, on which she kept rehearsing the slow, somnambulistically beautiful beginning of the Moonlight Sonata - only one beginning - on the piano and on the under-mirror elegant flowers bloomed in faceted vases - on my order fresh ones were delivered to her every Saturday, and when I came to see her on Saturday evening, she, lying on the sofa, over which for some reason hung a portrait of barefoot Tolstoy, slowly stretched out her hand to me for a kiss and absentmindedly said: “Thank you for the flowers .. .” I brought her boxes of chocolates, new books - by Hofmannsthal, Schnitzler, Tetmeier, Pshibyshevsky - and received all the same “thank you” and an outstretched warm hand, sometimes an order to sit near the sofa without taking off my coat. “It’s not clear why,” she said thoughtfully, stroking my beaver collar, “but it seems that nothing can be better than the smell of winter air with which you enter the room from the yard ...” It looked like she didn’t need anything : no flowers, no books, no dinners, no theaters, no dinners outside the city, although, nevertheless, she had favorite and unloved flowers, all the books that I brought her, she always read, ate a whole box of chocolate a day, for at lunch and dinner she ate no less than I did, she loved pies with burbot fish soup, pink hazel grouses in hard-fried sour cream, sometimes she said: “I don’t understand how people don’t get tired of it all their lives, to have lunch and dinner every day,” but she herself had lunch and dinner with the Moscow understanding of the matter. Her obvious weakness was only good clothes, velvet, silks, expensive fur ... We were both rich, healthy, young and so good-looking that in restaurants, at concerts, they saw us off with their eyes. I, being a native of the Penza province, was at that time beautiful for some reason, a southern, hot beauty, I was even “indecently handsome,” as one famous actor once said to me, a monstrously fat man, a great glutton and clever. "The devil knows who you are, some kind of Sicilian," he said sleepily; and my character was southern, lively, always ready for a happy smile, for a good joke. And she had some kind of Indian, Persian beauty: a swarthy amber face, magnificent and somewhat sinister in its thick black hair, softly shining like black sable fur, eyebrows, eyes black as velvet coal; the mouth, captivating with velvety crimson lips, was shaded by a dark fluff; when leaving, she most often put on a pomegranate velvet dress and the same shoes with gold clasps (and she went to courses as a modest student, ate breakfast for thirty kopecks in a vegetarian canteen on the Arbat); and as much as I was inclined to talkativeness, to simple-hearted gaiety, she was most often silent: she was always thinking something, everything seemed to be mentally delving into something; lying on the sofa with a book in her hands, she often put it down and looked inquiringly in front of her: I saw this, sometimes stopping by her and during the day, because every month she didn’t go out at all for three or four days and didn’t leave the house, she lay and read, forcing me to sit down in an armchair near the sofa and silently read. “You are terribly talkative and restless,” she said, “let me finish reading the chapter ... “If I hadn’t been talkative and restless, I might never have recognized you,” I answered, reminding her of our acquaintance: once in December, when I got to the Art Circle for a lecture by Andrei Bely, who sang it, as I ran and danced on the stage, I twirled and laughed so much that she, who happened to be in the chair next to me and at first looked at me with some bewilderment, also finally laughed, and I immediately turned to her cheerfully. "It's all right," she said, "but all the same, be quiet for a while, read something, smoke... - I can not be silent! You can't imagine the power of my love for you! You don't love me! - I represent. As for my love, you know very well that apart from my father and you, I have no one in the world. In any case, you are my first and last. Is this not enough for you? But enough about that. You can’t read in front of you, let’s drink tea ... And I got up, boiled water in an electric kettle on a table behind the sofa blade, took cups and saucers from a nut slide that stood in the corner behind the table, saying what came to mind: - Have you finished reading "Fiery Angel"? - Checked it out. It's so pompous that it's embarrassing to read. - And why did you suddenly leave Chaliapin's concert yesterday? - I was too pissed off. And then I don’t like yellow-haired Russia at all. - You don't like it! Yes, a lot... "Strange Love!" I thought, and while the water boiled, I stood and looked out the windows. The room smelled of flowers, and it combined for me with their scent; behind one window lay low in the distance a huge picture of the riverside snow-gray Moscow; in the other, to the left, part of the Kremlin was visible, on the contrary, somehow too close, the too new bulk of Christ the Savior was white, in the golden dome of which the jackdaws eternally curling around it were reflected in bluish spots ... “Strange city! I said to myself, thinking about Okhotny Ryad, about Iverskaya, about St. Basil the Blessed. - St. Basil's - and Spas-on-Bora, Italian cathedrals - and something Kyrgyz in the tips of the towers on the Kremlin walls ... " Arriving at dusk, I sometimes found her on the sofa in only one silk arkhaluk trimmed with sable - the inheritance of my Astrakhan grandmother, she said - I sat near her in the semi-darkness, without lighting the fire, and kissed her hands, feet, amazing in its smoothness body ... And she did not resist anything, but everything was silent. Every minute I looked for her hot lips - she gave them, breathing already impetuously, but all in silence. When she felt that I was no longer able to control myself, she pushed me away, sat down and, without raising her voice, asked me to turn on the light, then went into the bedroom. I lit it, sat down on a revolving stool near the piano and gradually came to my senses, cooled down from the hot dope. A quarter of an hour later she came out of the bedroom dressed, ready to leave, calm and simple, as if nothing had happened before: - Where to now? In the Metropol, maybe? And again the whole evening we talked about something extraneous. Shortly after we got close, she told me when I started talking about marriage: No, I am not fit to be a wife. I'm not good, I'm not good... This didn't discourage me. "We'll see!" I said to myself, hoping that her mind would change with time, and I didn't talk about marriage anymore. Our incomplete intimacy sometimes seemed unbearable to me, but even here - what was left for me but the hope of time? Once, sitting next to her in this evening darkness and silence, I clutched my head: No, it's beyond my power! And why, why do you have to torture me and yourself so cruelly! She said nothing. Yes, it's not love, it's not love... She called out evenly from the darkness: - May be. Who knows what love is? — I, I know! I exclaimed. - And I will wait until you know what love, happiness is! - Happiness, happiness ... "Our happiness, my friend, is like water in a delusion: you pull - it puffed up, but you pull it out - there's nothing."- What's this? - This is how Platon Karataev told Pierre. I waved my hand. - Oh, God bless her, with this Eastern wisdom! And again, the whole evening he talked only about outsiders - about a new production of the Art Theater, about a new story by Andreev ... Again it was enough for me that at first I sat closely with her in a flying and rolling sledge, holding her in a smooth fur coat , then I enter the crowded hall of the restaurant with her to the march from Aida, eat and drink next to her, hear her slow voice, look at the lips that I kissed an hour ago - yes, I kissed, I said to myself, with enthusiastic gratitude looking at them, at the dark fluff above them, at the pomegranate velvet of the dress, at the slope of the shoulders and the oval of her breasts, smelling some slightly spicy scent of her hair, thinking: "Moscow, Astrakhan, Persia, India!" In restaurants outside the city, towards the end of dinner, when everything was getting noisier all around in tobacco smoke, she, also smoking and getting drunk, sometimes led me to a separate room, asked to call the gypsies, and they entered deliberately noisy, cheeky: in front of the choir, with a guitar on a blue ribbon over his shoulder, an old gypsy in a Cossack coat with galloons, with a bluish muzzle of a drowned man, with a head as bare as a cast-iron ball, behind him a gypsy sang with a low forehead under tar bangs ... She listened to the songs with a languid, strange smile .. At three or four o'clock in the morning I drove her home, at the entrance, closing my eyes from happiness, kissed the wet fur of her collar and in some kind of enthusiastic despair flew to the Red Gate. And tomorrow and the day after tomorrow everything will be the same, I thought—the same torment and the same happiness... Well, after all, happiness, great happiness! So passed January, February, came and went carnival. On Forgiveness Sunday, she ordered me to come to her at five o'clock in the evening. I arrived, and she met me already dressed, in a short astrakhan fur coat, astrakhan hat, and black felt boots. - All Black! - I said, entering, as always, joyfully. Her eyes were kind and quiet. “After all, tomorrow is already a clean Monday,” she answered, taking it out of her astrakhan muff and giving me her hand in a black kid glove. - "Lord, Lord of my life..." Do you want to go to the Novodevichy Convent? I was surprised, but hastened to say:- Want! “Well, all taverns and taverns,” she added. - Yesterday morning I was at the Rogozhsky cemetery ... I was even more surprised: - At the cemetery? What for? Is this the famous schismatic? Yes, schismatic. Pre-Petrine Russia! They buried their archbishop. And just imagine: the coffin is an oak log, as in ancient times, the golden brocade is as if forged, the face of the deceased is covered with white “air”, embroidered with large black script - beauty and horror. And at the tomb are deacons with ripids and trikiriyas... — How do you know that? Ripids, trikiriyas! “You don't know me. I didn't know you were so religious. - It's not religious. I don't know what... But, for example, I often go in the mornings or in the evenings, when you don't drag me to restaurants, to the Kremlin cathedrals, and you don't even suspect it... So, what deacons! Peresvet and Oslyabya! And on two choirs, two choirs, also all Peresvets: tall, powerful, in long black caftans, they sing, calling to each other - now one choir, then another - and all in unison, and not according to notes, but according to “hooks”. And the grave was lined inside with shiny spruce branches, and outside it was frost, sun, snow blinding ... No, you don’t understand this! Let's go... The evening was peaceful, sunny, with frost on the trees; on the bloody brick walls of the monastery, jackdaws resembling nuns chatted in silence, the chimes now and then played thinly and sadly on the bell tower. Creaking in silence through the snow, we entered the gate, walked along the snowy paths through the cemetery - the sun had just set, it was still quite light, marvelously drawn on the gold enamel of the sunset with gray coral, branches in hoarfrost, and mysteriously glowed around us with calm, sad lights inextinguishable lamps scattered over the graves. I followed her, looked with emotion at her little footprint, at the stars that her new black boots left in the snow—she suddenly turned around, sensing this: "Really, how you love me!" she said in quiet bewilderment, shaking her head. We stood near the graves of Ertel and Chekhov. Holding her hands in her muff lowered, she looked for a long time at the Chekhov grave monument, then shrugged her shoulder: — What a nasty mixture of Russian leaf style and the Art Theater! It began to get dark, it was freezing, we slowly went out of the gate, near which my Fedor meekly sat on the goats. "We'll drive a little more," she said, "then we'll go eat the last pancakes at Egorov's... Just not too much, Fyodor, really?"- I'm listening. - Somewhere on Ordynka there is a house where Griboyedov lived. Let's go look for him... And for some reason we went to Ordynka, drove for a long time along some alleys in the gardens, were in Griboedovsky lane; but who could tell us in which house Griboyedov lived - there were not a soul of passers-by, and besides, which of them could need Griboyedov? It had long been dark, the trees were turning pink through the hoarfrost-lit windows... “There is also the Marfo-Mariinsky Convent here,” she said. I laughed. — Again in the monastery? - No, it's me... The ground floor of Yegorov's tavern in Okhotny Ryad was full of shaggy, thickly dressed cabbies cutting stacks of pancakes drenched in excess butter and sour cream; In the upper rooms, also very warm, with low ceilings, the Old Testament merchants washed down fiery pancakes with grainy caviar with frozen champagne. We went into the second room, where in the corner, in front of the black board of the icon of the Three-handed Mother of God, a lamp was burning, we sat down at a long table on a black leather sofa ... The fluff on her upper lip was frosted, the amber of her cheeks turned slightly pink, the blackness of the paradise completely merged with pupil, - I could not take my enthusiastic eyes from her face. And she said, taking out a handkerchief from a fragrant muff: - Good! Below are wild men, and here are pancakes with champagne and the Virgin with three hands. Three hands! After all, this is India! You are a gentleman, you cannot understand all this Moscow the way I do. - I can, I can! I answered. “And let’s order a strong lunch!” - How is it "strong"? - It means strong. How can you not know? "Gyurgi's speech..." — How good! Gyurgi! Yes, Prince Yuri Dolgoruky. "Gyurgi's speech to Svyatoslav, Prince of Seversky:" Come to me, brother, in Moscow "and commanded to arrange a strong dinner." — How good. And now only in some northern monasteries this Russia remains. Yes, even in church hymns. Recently I went to the Zachatievsky Monastery - you cannot imagine how wonderfully the stichera are sung there! And Chudovoe is even better. Last year I went there all the time on Strastnaya. Ah, how good it was! There are puddles everywhere, the air is already soft, the soul is somehow tender, sad, and all the time this feeling of the homeland, its antiquity ... All the doors in the cathedral are open, the common people come in and out all day, the whole day of the service ... Oh, I'll leave I'm going somewhere to a monastery, to some of the most deaf, Vologda, Vyatka! I wanted to say that then I would either leave or slaughter someone so that they would drive me to Sakhalin, lit a cigarette, forgetting from excitement, but a police officer in white trousers and a white shirt, belted with a crimson cord, respectfully reminded: "Sorry, sir, we can't smoke here..." And immediately, with particular obsequiousness, he began in a patter: - What do you want for pancakes? Homemade herbalist? Caviar, seeds? Our sherry is extremely good for our ribs, but for the navka... “And sherry for the navy,” she added, delighting me with her kind talkativeness, which did not leave her all evening. And I listened absentmindedly to what she had to say next. And she spoke with a quiet light in her eyes: - I love Russian chronicles, I love Russian legends so much that until then I re-read what I especially like until I memorize it. “There was a city in the Russian land, the name of Murom, in which a noble prince, named Pavel, ruled. And the devil instilled in his wife a flying serpent for fornication. And this serpent appeared to her in human nature, very beautiful ... " I jokingly made scary eyes: - Oh, what a horror! She continued without listening: So God tested her. “When the time came for her blessed death, this prince and princess begged God to repose them in one day. And they agreed to be buried in a single coffin. And they ordered to carve out two coffin beds in a single stone. And they put on, at the same time, in a monastic robe ... " And again my absent-mindedness was replaced by surprise and even anxiety: what is the matter with her today? And so, on this evening, when I took her home at a completely different time than usual, at eleven o'clock, she, after saying goodbye to me at the entrance, suddenly detained me when I was already getting into the sleigh: - Wait. Come see me tomorrow night before ten o'clock. Tomorrow is a skit at the Art Theatre. - So that? I asked. - Do you want to go to this "skit"?- Yes. “But you said that you don’t know anything more vulgar than these “skewers”! “Now I don't know. And yet I want to go. I mentally shook my head - all quirks, Moscow quirks! - and cheerfully responded:- Ol Wright! At ten o'clock in the evening the next day, having gone up in the elevator to her door, I opened the door with my key and did not immediately enter from the dark hallway: it was unusually light behind it, everything was lit - chandeliers, candelabra on the sides of the mirror and a tall lamp under the light lampshade behind the head of the sofa, and the piano sounded the beginning of the "Moonlight Sonata" - all rising, sounding further, the more wearying, more inviting, in somnambulistic-blissful sadness. I slammed the door of the hallway - the sounds broke off, the rustle of a dress was heard. I entered—she was standing straight and somewhat theatrical near the piano in a black velvet dress that made her thinner, shining with her elegance, the festive dress of pitch hair, the dark amber of her bare arms, shoulders, the tender, full beginning of her breasts, the sparkle of diamond earrings along her slightly powdered cheeks, coal velvet eyes and velvety purple lips; glossy black pigtails curled up to her eyes in half-rings, giving her the appearance of an oriental beauty from a popular print. “Now, if I were a singer and sang on the stage,” she said, looking at my confused face, “I would answer the applause with a friendly smile and slight bows to the right and left, up and to the stalls, and I myself would imperceptibly, but carefully remove foot train, so as not to step on it ... On the skiff she smoked a lot and sipped champagne all the time, stared intently at the actors, with lively cries and refrains depicting what seemed to be Parisian, at the big Stanislavsky with white hair and black eyebrows and the dense Moskvin in pince-nez on a trough-shaped face, both with deliberate seriousness and diligence, falling back, made a desperate can-can to the laughter of the public. Kachalov approached us with a glass in his hand, pale from hops, with large sweat on his forehead, on which a tuft of his Belarusian hair hung down, raised his glass and, looking at her with mock gloomy greed, said in his low acting voice: “Tsar Maiden, Queen of Shamakhan, your health!” And she slowly smiled and clinked glasses with him. He took her hand, leaned drunkenly on it and almost fell off his feet. He managed and, clenching his teeth, looked at me: - And what is this handsome man? I hate. Then she wheezed, whistled and rattled, the hurdy-gurdy stomped skipping polka - and, sliding, flew up to us little Sulerzhitsky, always hurrying somewhere and laughing, bent over, imitating Gostinodvor gallantry, hurriedly muttered: - Allow me to invite you to Tranblanc... And she, smiling, got up and, deftly, briefly stomping, flashing her earrings, her blackness and her bare shoulders and arms, walked with him among the tables, accompanied by admiring glances and applause, while he, raising his head, shouted like a goat:

Let's go, let's go quickly
Polka dance with you!

At three o'clock in the morning she got up, closing her eyes. When we were dressed, she looked at my beaver hat, stroked the beaver collar and went to the exit, saying, half jokingly, half seriously: - Of course, beautiful. Kachalov told the truth... "A snake in human nature, very beautiful..." She was silent on the way, bowing her head from the bright moon blizzard that was flying towards her. I spent a full month diving in the clouds over the Kremlin, “some kind of luminous skull,” she said. On the Spasskaya Tower, the clock struck three, - she also said: — What an ancient sound, something tin and iron. And just like that, the same sound struck three in the morning in the fifteenth century. And in Florence, the battle was exactly the same, it reminded me of Moscow there ... When Fyodor besieged at the entrance, she ordered lifelessly: - Let him go... Struck, she never allowed me to go up to her at night, I said in confusion: - Fedor, I will return on foot ... And we silently reached up in the elevator, entered the night warmth and silence of the apartment with tapping hammers in the heaters. I took off her fur coat, slippery from the snow, she threw a wet downy shawl from her hair onto my hands and quickly went, rustling with her silk bottom skirt, into the bedroom. I undressed, entered the first room, and with my heart sinking as if over an abyss, sat down on a Turkish sofa. I could hear her steps behind the open doors of the lighted bedroom, how she, clinging to the hairpins, pulled off her dress over her head ... dressing-glass, combing with a tortoiseshell comb the black strands of long hair that hung along the face. “He kept saying that I don’t think much about him,” she said, throwing the comb on the mirror-holder, and, throwing her hair back, turned to me: “No, I thought ... At dawn I felt her move. I opened my eyes and she was staring at me. I rose from the warmth of the bed and her body, she leaned towards me, quietly and evenly saying: — This evening I'm leaving for Tver. How long, God only knows... And she pressed her cheek against mine - I felt her wet eyelash blinking. I will write everything as soon as I arrive. I will write about the future. I'm sorry, leave me now, I'm very tired ... And lay down on the pillow. I dressed carefully, kissed her timidly on the hair, and tiptoed out onto the stairs, which were already brightening with a pale light. I was walking on the young sticky snow—the blizzard was gone, everything was calm and you could already see it far along the streets, and there was a smell of snow and from bakeries. I reached Iverskaya, the inside of which burned hotly and shone with whole bonfires of candles, knelt among the crowd of old women and beggars on the trampled snow, took off my hat ... Someone touched my shoulder - I looked: some unfortunate old woman was looking at me , grimacing from pitiful tears. Oh, don't kill yourself, don't kill yourself like that! Sin, sin! The letter I received two weeks after that was brief - an affectionate but firm request not to wait for her any longer, not to try to look for her, to see: “I won’t return to Moscow, I’ll go to obedience for now, then, maybe, I’ll decide to be tonsured .. May God give strength not to answer me - it is useless to prolong and increase our torment ... " I fulfilled her request. And for a long time he disappeared in the dirtiest taverns, drank himself, sinking more and more in every possible way. Then he gradually began to recover - indifferently, hopelessly ... Almost two years have passed since that clean Monday ... In 1914, on New Year's Eve, there was an evening just as quiet and sunny as the unforgettable one. I left the house, took a cab and went to the Kremlin. There he went into the empty Cathedral of the Archangel, stood for a long time, without praying, in its twilight, looking at the faint shimmer of the old gold of the iconostasis and the tombstones of the Moscow tsars; her. Leaving the cathedral, he ordered the cab driver to go to Ordynka, he drove at a pace, as then, along the dark alleys in the gardens with windows lit under them, he drove along Griboedovsky lane - and he kept crying, crying ... On Ordynka, I stopped a cab at the gates of the Marfo-Mariinsky Convent: there black carriages were seen in the yard, the open doors of a small illuminated church were visible, the singing of a maiden choir wafted mournfully and tenderly from the doors. For some reason, I really wanted to go there. The janitor at the gate blocked my way, asking softly, imploringly: “You can’t, sir, you can’t!” - How can you not? Can't go to church? - You can, sir, of course, you can, only I ask you for God's sake, do not go, Grand Duchess Elzavet Fedrovna and Grand Duke Mitri Palych are there right now ... I slipped him a ruble - he sighed contritely and let it through. But as soon as I entered the yard, icons, banners, carried on their hands, appeared from the church, behind them, all in white, long, thin-faced, in a white obruss with a golden cross sewn on her forehead, tall, slowly, earnestly walking with lowered eyes , with a large candle in her hand, Grand Duchess; and behind her stretched the same white line of nuns or sisters singing, with the lights of candles in their faces - I don’t know who they were or where they were going. For some reason, I looked at them very carefully. And then one of those walking in the middle suddenly raised her head, covered with a white kerchief, blocking the candle with her hand, fixed her dark eyes into the darkness, as if just at me ... What could she see in the darkness, how could she feel my presence? I turned and quietly walked out of the gate. May 12, 1944

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin

"Clean Monday"

They met in December by chance. When he got to Andrei Bely's lecture, he twirled and laughed so much that she, who happened to be in an armchair nearby and at first looked at him with some bewilderment, also laughed. Now every evening he went to her apartment, rented by her solely for the sake of a wonderful view of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, every evening he took her to dine in chic restaurants, theaters, concerts ... How all this was supposed to end, he did not know and tried not to even think: she put aside all talk of the future once and for all.

She was mysterious and incomprehensible; their relationship was strange and indefinite, and this kept him in constant unresolved tension, in agonizing expectation. And yet, what happiness was every hour spent next to her ...

In Moscow, she lived alone (her widowed father, an enlightened man of a noble merchant family, lived in retirement in Tver), for some reason she studied at courses (she liked history) and kept learning the slow beginning of the Moonlight Sonata, only the beginning ... He teased her flowers, chocolate and newfangled books, receiving for all this an indifferent and absent-minded "Thank you ...". And it seemed that she didn’t need anything, although she still preferred her favorite flowers, read books, ate chocolate, dined and dined with appetite. Her obvious weakness was only good clothes, expensive fur ...

They were both rich, healthy, young and so good-looking that in restaurants and at concerts they were seen off with their eyes. He, being a native of the Penza province, was then handsome with southern, “Italian” beauty and had a corresponding character: lively, cheerful, constantly ready for a happy smile. And she had some kind of Indian, Persian beauty, and how talkative and restless he was, she was so silent and thoughtful ... Even when he suddenly kissed her passionately, impetuously, she did not resist, but was silent all the time. And when she felt that he was unable to control herself, she calmly pulled away, went into the bedroom and dressed for the next trip. "No, I'm not fit to be a wife!" she insisted. "We'll see!" he thought, and never spoke of marriage again.

But sometimes this incomplete intimacy seemed unbearably painful to him: “No, this is not love!” “Who knows what love is?” she answered. And again, all evening they talked only about strangers, and again he rejoiced only that he was simply next to Her, heard her voice, looked at the lips that he kissed an hour ago ... What torment! And what happiness!

So January passed, February, came and went Shrovetide. On forgiveness Sunday, she dressed in all black (“After all, tomorrow is a clean Monday!”) And invited him to go to the Novodevichy Convent. He looked at her in surprise, and she talked about the beauty and sincerity of the funeral of the schismatic archbishop, about the singing of the church choir, which makes the heart tremble, about her lonely visits to the Kremlin cathedrals ... Then they wandered around the Novodevichy cemetery for a long time, visited the graves of Ertel and Chekhov, for a long time and fruitlessly they were looking for Griboyedov's house, and not having found it, they went to the Yegorov tavern in Okhotny Ryad.

The tavern was warm and full of thickly dressed cabbies. “How good,” she said. “And only in some northern monasteries this Russia now remains ... Oh, I’ll go somewhere to a monastery, to some very remote!” And she read by heart from ancient Russian legends: “... And the devil instilled in his wife a flying snake for fornication. And this serpent appeared to her in human nature, very beautiful ... ". And again he looked with surprise and concern: what is the matter with her today? All quirks?

For tomorrow, she asked to be taken to a theatrical skit, although she noticed that there was nothing more vulgar than them. She smoked a lot at the skit and looked intently at the actors, grimacing to the laughter of the public. One of them first looked at her with mock gloomy greed, then, drunkenly leaning on his arm, inquired about her companion: “What kind of handsome man is this? I hate it.” At three o'clock in the morning, leaving the skit, She said, not jokingly, not seriously: “He was right. Of course it's beautiful. “The serpent is in human nature, very beautiful ...” And that evening, contrary to custom, she asked to let the crew go ...

And in a quiet night apartment, she immediately went into the bedroom, rustled with her dress being removed. He went to the door: she, in only swan shoes, stood in front of the dressing table, combing her black hair with a tortoiseshell comb. “Everyone said that I don’t think much about him,” she said. - No, I thought ... "... And at dawn he woke up from her gaze: "Tonight I'm leaving for Tver," she said. - How long, God only knows ... I'll write everything as soon as I arrive. I'm sorry, leave me now..."

The letter received two weeks later was brief - an affectionate but firm request not to wait, not to try to look for and see: “I won’t return to Moscow, I’ll go to obedience for now, then, maybe, I’ll decide to be tonsured ...” And he didn’t look, for a long time disappeared in the dirtiest taverns, drank himself, sinking more and more. Then he gradually began to recover - indifferently, hopelessly ...

Almost two years have passed since that clean Monday ... On the same quiet evening, he left the house, took a cab and drove to the Kremlin. For a long time he stood without praying in the dark Cathedral of the Archangel, then for a long time he drove, as then, along the dark lanes and kept crying, crying ...

On Ordynka, I stopped at the gates of the Marfo-Mariinsky Convent, in which the girls' choir sang mournfully and tenderly. The janitor didn't want to let him through, but for a ruble, he sighed in dismay and let him through. Then icons, banners, carried in their hands, appeared from the church, a white line of singing nuns stretched out, with the lights of candles in their faces. He carefully looked at them, and then one of those walking in the middle suddenly raised her head and fixed her dark eyes on the darkness, as if seeing him. What could she see in the darkness, how could she feel His presence? He turned and quietly walked out of the gate.

They met one day in December by chance. He came to listen to a lecture by Andrei Bely, and laughed so much that he infected everyone around him with his laughter. She was next to him, and also laughed, not understanding the reason. Now they went to restaurants and theaters together, and lived in the same apartment. They did not want to talk about the future, enjoying every minute of their happiness. In Moscow, she had a separate apartment. Father, from a wealthy family, lived in Tver. Every day he brought flowers and gifts. Both were not poor, young and happy. In restaurants, everyone followed them with their eyes, admiring the combination of such beauty. But for marriage, they were not yet ready.

There were times when it seemed to him that there was no love. In response, I heard only the words: "What is love?". Again and again, they were just the two of them, and enjoyed every moment of life. So the winter passed, and on forgiveness Sunday she put on black clothes and offered to go to the Novodevichy Convent. He looked at her with surprise, and she told how her heart beats when you are in the temple, and how beautifully the church choir sings. They walked around the Novodevichy cemetery for a long time, looking for the graves of famous writers. After that, they went to a tavern on Okhotny Ryad.

There were many people in the tavern. She could not stop thinking about how good it was in Russian monasteries, and she wanted to go to one someday. She recited old Russian legends by heart, and he again looked at her in surprise, not knowing what was happening to her.

The next day, she decided to drive to the theater meeting, although she said that it went. Here she looked at celebrities and smoked a lot. One of the actors watched her greedily all evening, and at the end, having drunk, he pressed his lips to her hand. He asked who her companion was, looking at him with hatred. Late at night, having come from a party, she thought that her gentleman was too handsome, like a snake in human form. And a little thought, released the crew.

Entering a quiet, calm apartment, she immediately went into the bedroom and took off her dress. He went to the door and saw her standing only in swan shoes. She stood in front of the mirror and combed her hair. Having said that it was not morning she was leaving for Tver to her father, she went to bed. Two weeks later, he received a letter saying that she was no longer coming. In addition, she asked not to seek a meeting with her. He did not look for a long time, going down to the bottom with the help of alcohol. Then, little by little, he began to come to his senses.

A few years later, he left the house and went to the Kremlin. It was a clean Monday, and for a long time he stood in one of the cathedrals without praying. Then he drove through the dark Moscow streets and cried.

After a while, he stopped at the gates of the Marfo-Mariinsky Monastery, where the girls' choir sang so beautifully and sadly. At first they did not want to let him in, but after paying the janitor a ruble, he entered. Here he saw how the nuns came out of the church, holding candles in their hands. He looked at them carefully. Suddenly he saw her. She stared into the darkness, straight at him, seeing nothing. It is possible that she felt his presence. He turned and left.

Their acquaintance took place in the month of December. It is not clear how he got to one of the lectures of Mr. Andrei Bely, he could not sit still and the whole lecture was spinning and laughing to the whole audience. She looked at him as if he were an eccentric, but she herself did not understand how she laughed at his next joke. Since that time, every evening he comes to her house in an apartment that she bought only because she was struck by the view of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. He did not understand what kind of relationship awaited him with her, he drove her to restaurants and cafes, visited museums and concerts with her. He did not want to think about what would happen next, because once she had let him know that she was not at all interested in such a conversation.

She has always been a mystery to him, and it haunted him. He enjoyed every minute that fate gave him to feel her breath or see her smile. It was a real blessing for him...

She rented an apartment alone, her father lived far away in Tver. She liked going to history classes. She taught the Moonlight Sonata, although she only learned the beginning of it. She took the flowers that he gave her, read the books that he brought and always ate with appetite.

Rich, young, beautiful. In all public places they were seen off with their eyes. He is from the province of Penza. He was insanely beautiful, he had some kind of Italian zest. He was cheerful, lively and always smiling. She had either Indian or Persian charm. They complemented each other, he is talkative, she is quiet, he is restless, she is thoughtful. Even in kissing, they were as different as they could be.

Periodically, she could not control herself and went to the room in which she dressed for a new walk. She did not want to get married, because she believed that she was not made for marriage.

Periodically, he could not understand how he still maintains such a relationship. And again they forgot about everything and talked about strangers. He was glad that he had the opportunity to be near her. For him, it was both pain and happiness.

Thus ended the winter. On forgiveness Sunday, she was dressed in all black and invited him to go to the Novodevichy Convent. She shared with him the beauties of those places and the sincerity of the archbishop's funeral. She was close to the church choir, she believed that he made her heart tremble. They walked for a long time in search of Griboyedov's house, but, having failed to find him, they went to refresh themselves at Yegorov on Okhotny Ryad.

The tavern turned out to be quite warm and cozy, there were a lot of cabbies in it. She said that only in such quiet places did Russia remain untouched and that someday she would leave worldly life for a monastery, reading some ancient Russian legend. He did not understand what other quirks she had in her head.

She asked him to take her to the theatrical skit tomorrow, although, as she said, they were rather vulgar. She smoked a lot in this establishment, and, looking intently at the actors, watched the laughter of the local public. There, a man was looking at her with greedy eyes, who soon approached them and drunkenly clung to her hand, mumbling something about her companion. They left the theatrical skit around three in the morning, and that day she decided to let the carriage go and head home on foot.

She went home and immediately went to her room and began to rustle her dress. She was standing by the mirror when he came close to her door. She combed her gorgeous thick black hair. In the morning he woke up from her gaze, which was unnaturally fixed. Saying that she was leaving for Tver and would send him a letter from there, she asked him to leave.

He received the letter about two weeks later. In it, she affectionately but firmly explained that he would not wait for her, would not hope to see or hear her ever again. It turned out that she decided to go to the monastery for obedience, in order to eventually become a nun. He listened to her and did not look for a meeting with her, he disappeared in taverns, began to drink a lot of wine, he rolled lower and lower, not wanting to get out of the hole into which he had driven himself. Soon he found strength in himself and began to recover, but all this seemed to him senseless and soulless.

It's been a couple of years since he'd met her on Clean Monday. On exactly such an evening he got out of the house, catching a cab, he went to the Kremlin. He stood for a long time, not praying, not thinking about anything, in the Cathedral of the Archangel, after that he rode and cried.

So he drove to Ordynka, where the girls' choir sang in the Marfo-Maryinsky monastery. The janitor did not want to let him through at all, but when the gentleman offered him a ruble, he went limp, sighed and opened a passage for the man.

Icons and banners were taken out of the church. Singing nuns walked one by one with burning candles shining beautifully in their faces. He took a closer look and saw her, having carefully examined, he left. She felt his presence next to her. He didn't stop or turn around. He just left...

Every evening in the winter of 1912, the narrator visits the same apartment opposite the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. There lives a woman whom he loves madly. The narrator takes her to chic restaurants, gives her books, chocolates and fresh flowers, but does not know how it will all end. She doesn't want to talk about the future. There has not yet been a real, last intimacy between them, and this keeps the narrator "in insoluble tension, in painful expectation." Despite this, he is happy next to her.

She studies at historical courses and lives alone - her father, a widowed enlightened merchant, settled "at rest in Tver." She accepts all the gifts of the narrator carelessly and absent-mindedly.

It seemed that she wanted nothing: no flowers, no books, no dinners, no theaters, no dinners outside the city.

She has her favorite flowers, she reads books, she eats chocolate and dine with great pleasure, but her only real weakness is "good clothes, velvet, silks, expensive furs."

Both the narrator and his beloved are young and very beautiful. The narrator looks like an Italian, bright and agile. She was swarthy and black-eyed like a Persian. He is "prone to talkativeness and simple-hearted gaiety", she is always reserved and silent.

The narrator often recalls how they met at Andrei Bely's lecture. The writer did not give a lecture, but sang it, running around the stage. The narrator "twisted and laughed so much" that he attracted the attention of a girl sitting in a nearby chair, and she laughed with him.

Sometimes she silently, but without resisting, allows the narrator to kiss "her hands, her feet, her body, amazing in its smoothness." Feeling that he can no longer control himself, she pulls away and leaves. She says she is not fit for marriage, and the narrator doesn't talk to her about it again.

Our incomplete intimacy sometimes seemed unbearable, but even here - what was left for me but hope for time?

The fact that he looks at her, accompanies her to restaurants and theaters, is torment and happiness for the narrator.

So the narrator spends January and February. Carnival arrives. On Forgiveness Sunday, she orders to pick her up earlier than usual. They go to the Novodevichy Convent. On the way, she tells that yesterday morning she was at the schismatic cemetery, where their archbishop was buried, and recalls the whole ceremony with delight. The narrator is surprised - until now he did not notice that she is so religious.

They arrive at the cemetery of the Novodevichy Convent and walk between the graves for a long time. The narrator looks at her with adoration. She notices this and is sincerely surprised: he really loves her so much! In the evening they eat pancakes in the tavern of Okhotny Ryad, she again tells him with admiration about the monasteries that she managed to see, and threatens to leave for the most remote of them. The narrator does not take her words seriously.

The next evening, she asks the narrator to take her to a theatrical skit, although she considers such gatherings to be extremely vulgar. All evening she drinks champagne, looks at the antics of the actors, and then famously dances the polka with one of them.

Late at night, the narrator brings her home. To his surprise, she asks to let the coachman go and go up to her apartment - she did not allow this before. They are finally getting closer. In the morning, she tells the narrator that she is leaving for Tver, promises to write and asks to leave her now.

The narrator receives the letter in two weeks. She says goodbye to him and asks not to wait and not to look for her.

I won’t return to Moscow, I’ll go to obedience for now, then, maybe, I’ll decide to be tonsured ... May God give me the strength not to answer me - it’s useless to prolong and increase our torment ...

The narrator grants her request. He begins to disappear through the dirtiest taverns, gradually losing his human appearance, then long, indifferently and hopelessly comes to his senses.

Two years pass. On New Year's Eve, the narrator, with tears in his eyes, repeats the path that he once traveled with his beloved on Forgiveness Sunday. Then he stops at the Marfo-Mariinsky Convent and wants to enter. The janitor does not let the narrator in: inside there is a service for the Grand Duchess and the Grand Duke. The narrator still comes in, slipping a ruble to the janitor.

In the courtyard of the monastery, the narrator sees a religious procession. It is headed by the Grand Duchess, followed by a string of singing nuns or sisters with candles near their pale faces. One of the sisters suddenly raises her black eyes and looks directly at the narrator, as if sensing his presence in the darkness. The Narrator turns and quietly exits the gate.

Summary of "Clean Monday" Option 2

1. About the work
2. main characters
3. Summary
4. Conclusion

12.06.2018

In this article, you will get acquainted with the summary of Bunin's story "Clean Monday". Written in the first person, the narrator, he is also the main character, a handsome young man from the Penza province, with no specific occupation, but well-off financially. The heroine is also a rich, young and spectacular girl, sometimes she attended some courses, but the author does not specify which ones. In the story, you will get acquainted with another story of unhappy love - a woman preferred a spiritual life to a real relationship.

So, a summary of Bunin's story

Acquaintance

December. In the evenings, the narrator visits an apartment near the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. The hostess lives there only because of the beautiful view of the temple. The protagonist met a woman at a lecture by Andrei Bely. Soon the main characters fall in love with each other. He brings her flowers, chocolate, books, takes her to dinners and receptions in pretentious places. She does not accept his gifts very willingly, but she always thanks, reads books to the end and eats chocolate. Her real passion is "good clothes". Both try not to think about the future. The characters are opposite: the narrator is active and talkative, while she is silent and thoughtful.

Forgiveness Sunday

So two months pass, Forgiveness Sunday comes. The heroine, dressed in black, invites the narrator to visit the Novodevichy Convent. The woman spoke about the beauty of the funeral of a schismatic archbishop, about the singing of the church choir. The couple visited the graves of Chekhov, Ertel, heading further to the tavern. The heroine tells the narrator that the real Russia is probably preserved only in the monasteries in the north, and maybe she will go to one of them. The protagonist does not take her words seriously, suggesting that these are "quirks again."

Clean Monday

In the morning, the woman asks the protagonist to take her to the theater, to a skit, considering, however, such "gatherings" as vulgar. Here the heroine constantly smokes, drinks champagne, watches the performance of the actors, dances with one of them. At three o'clock in the morning the young man takes the woman home. She releases the coachman and invites him to her place. The characters are physically close. In the morning she tells her lover that she is leaving for Tver and does not know how long she will stay there.

ending

Two weeks later, a letter arrives from her lover with a request not to write and not to make attempts to find her. She reports that at first she will be a novice, and then, perhaps, she will take tonsure and become a nun. After that, the main character disappears in taverns, indulging in all serious and sinking lower and lower. Then he recovers for a long time, being completely indifferent to everything. We understand that he is depressed.

Two years pass, on New Year's Eve, the main character, with tears in his eyes, walks along the path that he once walked with her. The man stops at the Marfo-Mariinsky Convent and wishes to visit it. The janitor allows you to enter only after paying. In the monastery there is a service for the prince and princess. In the courtyard, a man watches the procession. One of the novices singing in the choir suddenly looks at the protagonist, as if seeing him in the dark. He realizes that this is his lost beloved, turns around and silently leaves.

findings

The love tragedy of the heroes is that they could not understand each other. The heroine renounces carnal love, sees the end of her spiritual quest in the church. Her new love is the love of God. Now nothing vulgar will touch her subtle soul. She finds a new meaning of life and peace. The heroine finds her own way, and the narrator has not been able to find a place in this life.

The author tells readers that material and physical well-being do not guarantee happiness. Happiness is in understanding each other and yourself. The main characters of the story were completely different, and therefore were not happy. After all, the main character did not fully understand his beloved, he saw in her only some oddities and "quirks". I did not see the whole depth of her soul and the originality of the spiritual world. He could offer her only the external - wealth, entertainment, carnal pleasures, a bourgeois family. And she wanted more. Bunin told us a sad story about an unhappy love that could not end in a happy ending.